Not all the fairy folk in Cross contain themselves to my lands, or even to Gods’ Hollow. Occasionally, one or two will settle outside what might be considered safe borders.
In August, I found not one, but three of the Irish hidden in a stretch of land off Gordon’s Way. I’m not sure when they had moved there, but when I discovered them, it seemed as though they had been there for at least thirty years, if not longer.
They were a pair of Cailleach and a Bodach, old women and a man of the forest. None of them were pleased to see me, and, I confess, the feeling was mutual. The Irish have a tendency to stake out what they believe to be theirs and to defend it violently. These three were particularly frustrating. One of the women fired at me as soon as I stepped out of the tree-line. The other set their dog upon me.
The dog, I am pleased to say, had far more sense than its mistress. He ran at me, caught my scent, and high-tailed it into the woods.
When the three yelled at me in Irish, I returned the favor, adding a few invectives which were old before my father was born. That took them by surprise, and it was only then that I managed to move close enough to have a decent conversation with them. They were miserable, miserly old codgers, and had I been anyone other than myself, I would have ended up in their pot as meals for the next two days.
As it was, we passed a fair amount of time complaining about the state of affairs in Ireland, and then I went on my way.
They’re dangerous, and eventually, they’ll need killing.
But not yet.
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